Whatever Gods May Be
by Incendiarist
Summary: There may be hundreds, millions, and I'd never have had a clue. /WIP. Darkfic. TW: character death./
1. part the first

_#insert 'stddisclaimer.h'_

* * *

**_Whatever Gods May Be_**

_[part the first - for dead men deadly wine]_

by Incendiarist

* * *

_We thank with brief thanksgiving  
__ Whatever gods may be  
__ That no life lives for ever ;  
__ That dead men rise up never ;  
__ That even the weariest river__  
Winds somewhere safe to sea._

* * *

**i. **

I sit in the corner of my dank cell, waiting for something - anything - to happen. There's fear somewhere in my mind, I think, somewhere among the mindless terror which is not quite fear, because one can still think properly when fearful. Or maybe it's self-preservation; who knows? (_And who cares?) _The Thing will be back soon, and that's all that really matters; not the pathetic chemical reactions that make up the primal emotions which control humans so. Even pain is nothing, really, anymore. The Thing has taught me that much; pain can be ignored almost entirely, if only you block it out.

I've been doing a lot of blocking out lately.

The Thing has taken it upon Itself to 'train' me, as it were. I don't know what ultimate purpose It has - for surely It has one - it seems that 'training' means mostly that It uses me as Its personal chew-toy.

If you could compare It to a dog. I don't think you could, personally. Even a Grim would cower in fear before It, because It has no fear within Itself; not of death, nor anything else worth considering. If It ever had a fear, It has long since conditioned Itself not to show that fear.

At first I'd tried to find any fear in It, when I'd first been brought here, into this hell-hole beneath the manor that so beautifully conceals it; for none who did not know this cellar existed would even think of such a thing being here. The manor appears completely benign, for all of its Dark secrets. The Aurors could not find anything incriminating in the least if they literally turned the house upside-down.

But that does not matter, for surely you would not care in the least what this accursed building's Slytherin tendencies are (for it seems that the inhabitants have been Slytherin for so long, their personalities began to rub off on it, creating the Manor: aware, cunning for all that its worth, and condescending as hell. I don't doubt that it would literally taunt its enemies, those who would dare and attempt to uncover its secrets. But I have again fallen off-track.). What does matter is that I could not find a single weakness in the Thing. It appears to be immune to all temptations that a human would fall prey to, and It has no fears that I could tell, not even something as benign as arachnids.

The Thing knows it as well as I do, though I realised not long into my imprisonment that the thing isn't really human, at least, not entirely. It has the body of a human, yes, but It carries Itself in such a different manner… no, there's no way. Nothing mortal - no living, breathing flesh - can withstand what It does. Even accounting Its understanding of what pain is, there is no way to excuse the fact that It, if It shows any emotion at all, appears to _enjoy_ the beam of the Cruciatus. There's something deeply disconcerting about that, I've found. The lack of physical reaction, the lack of a scream, or even a tremor, that can be ignored, when push comes to shove. But the serene expression It holds, the smile on Its lips... Unnatural. The Thing is an abomination, at the very least. An Eldritch horror come to destroy the world, for all I know, It may be.

But the worst thing about It is indubitably the fact that I've no idea how many of It exist.

There may be hundreds, _millions_, and I'd never have had a clue.

The Thing returns now, and my horrified, half-coherent musings stop as though frozen over as I am reduced suddenly to what equivocates roughly to a living mass of quavering gelatine, begging and pleading for It to take mercy on me, futile as the hope may be.

I think It's taunting me now. The cackle of madness so foregone that nothing could bring it back to sanity - if indeed sanity ever truly existed within It - makes it difficult to be sure, and even then I've not taken into account the possibility that It may not even have human emotions, but I'm quite as sure as I'll ever be. It enjoys my terror, drinking it in as a Dementor would happiness.

And there I make the connection.

A Dementor, is It? Or rather, not an exact Dementor, but something related to them closely enough that it would not make much of a difference? Something which appears human? Something which could fool _real_ humans into thinking It was like them?

That was a terrifying thought. More terrifying was the fact that I'd the oddest impression that it was true.

**ii.**

Unnatural. That's what It was. Its eyes shone with an inhuman fire, disconcerting in their ability to make her feel as though they were looking straight into her soul. Maybe they were, maybe they weren't. She didn't know; didn't _want_ to know. Really, if she didn't have to see the Thing ever again, she'd be rather happy. It was in the cupboard for God-only-knew what reason, and if It was content there, there it could stay.

Really. Those eyes, her sister's eyes. Alien in Its face. Burning, burning...

It wants her soul.

_Hungry_.

She screams.

_Hungry_.

The Thing - the Demon-child, for that's what It must be - is in her head; she hears Its animalistic growl. It's still in the cupboard, why, she doesn't care, doesn't care...

She's got to lock the Thing in, lock It in before It destroys her.

_Hungry_.

"Vernon, help!" she screeches. The table is too heavy for her to move on her own, it only creeks and resists her frantic pulling. And the door, even with the locks... She knows it won't hold. She knows it, deep within her soul. For all she knows, It placed the knowledge there.

_Hungry_.

Vernon comes running (panting, gasping), helps to move the table. Between the two of them, they can barely lift it; surely it could contain the Thing...? It, corrupted though It may be, was still a toddler, with a toddler's strength. She hoped.

_Hungry_.

The word shows something akin to amusement this time, like It knew something that she didn't. Well, of course It did, a rational part of her brain argues, but it's so tiny, drowned out by waves of pure, mindless terror...

_Hungry_.

They push the table in place against the door, and Petunia collapses against Vernon, laughing softly (and more than a tad hysterically). They've got It trapped, for at least a short while. Enough time to pick up the baby from Mrs. Number Nine and get the hell out, in any case. They definitely can't _stay_.

_Hungry_.

They turn to leave, and are met with a toddler. Messy black hair, glowing eyes of vibrant green, a scar in the shape of a bolt of lightning that sits newly-engraved on Its forehead.

_Hungry_.

She screams.

**iii.**

"Mum? What're you doing?"

Selene looked down at her daughter, saying, "I'm doing something for work, sweetheart. Do you want to watch?"

The little girl - nine years old a month earlier - nodded excitedly, bouncing in anticipation, the spoons on her necklace tinkling. Selene noticed the odd jewellery, and smiled. "Why are you worried about Blibbering Humdingers, Lu?"

Luna shrugged. "I had a dream last night," she said, as though that explained everything. Which it did, if you knew her. Selene had thought for years that her daughter was a Seer; her family was an off-branch of the great Seer Cassandra, though no-one had been anywhere near as good since. A distant cousin of hers was mediocre at best, though you could see her ancestry clearly enough. She only prophesied negative events, after all. And most people didn't believe her. It didn't help that she got confused often, mixing up destinies of different people, or assigning more value to some mostly unimportant event. But Selene was an Unspeakable; she had been in the Hall of Prophecies, and she had seen The Prophecy. The one that caused Lord Voldemort to fall, and the Potters to be killed, and the Longbottoms to be tortured to insanity, and Sybill Trelawney to be offered a teaching position at Hogwarts (much to the dismay of the Transfiguration professor). She knew that there was some truth to Divination, generally speaking, as time is generally considered malleable to a point. Honestly, Selene was just waiting for Luna to make her first Prophecy.

Blibbering Humdingers, according to Luna - and Selene's husband, Xenophilius - were not quite omens of death, and yet were. Or rather, they were omens of the death of one's soul. Nasty little critters, despite the inane name (Merlin only knew who came up with it). Luna wore the necklace often enough, usually with an article in the Daily Prophet about someone being Kissed by a Dementor following the next day. This tended to cement Luna's Seer abilities in Selene's mind. Never yet had anything happened to their family, so Selene, as usual, paid Luna's handmade amulet's warning no heed.

She really ought to have.

**iv.**

Whispers ran through the Hall.

At the Gryffindor table, one speechless red-headed boy gasped, "How the bloody hell-?"

"Merlin, mate," said another red-head, "Remind me to avoid _her_, will ya? If the Hat Sorted her_ there_, she must be the most Slytherin person since the original!"

"She's Muggleborn, isn't she?" asked his friend. "I've not heard of any Grangers before."

"Yeah, I've not either, mate."

The girl on the other side of the table, who was, to the boys, just another nameless sixth year, said, "Well, she could be an Aussie. There's a mixed-blood family there by the name of Granger," not once looking up from the book she'd been reading, seemingly unconcerned about the whole issue.

Another girl scoffed. "Nah, she's Muggleborn. Didja see how she was lookin' at the ceiling?"

At the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, the conversation consisted of "That poor girl..." and "They'll eat her alive." The Slytherins were too slack-jawed to speak, and the new first-years looked either confused (if they were Muggleborn, and therefore wondering what the fuss was all about), or rather worried about where they'd end up (because a certain Hat was obviously completely bonkers), save for a single girl, who simply raised an eyebrow.

When Professor McGonagall regained her voice, the Sorting went on as normal as said girl, one "Greengrass, Daphne," was sorted into Slytherin, and, smiling cheerfully, and almost as widely as the Cheshire Cat, sat down across from the Muggleborn girl. (This meant that they were on the very edge of the table, because everyone else had moved as far away as they could, almost as though they thought a Muggle upbringing was contagious.) Then she stuck out a hand, and said, "Allies?" completely oblivious to the flinches made by almost everyone within hearing range.

The Muggleborn looked at her in shock. "You'll destroy your reputation if you ally with me, won't you?"

She snorted. "Hermione - d'you mind if I call you Hermione? No? Good - I'm a _Greengrass_. I don't have a reputation _to_ destroy. We're notorious for being lying, cheating, traitorous bastard scum. Check the history books if you wanna. My great-granddad, in the War Against Grindelwald, was, like, a quintuple agent or something ridiculous like that. Hell, You-Know-Who actually _refused_ my dad the Dark Mark 'cause he didn't want to get betrayed.

"Greengrasses look out for themselves. They stay with whoever they think is going to win at the time. And you're currently my best bet, I think. Your aura is, like, über strong. Kinda weird, like, I dunno, Alien-ish or something, but strong.

So. Allies?"

Hermione looked pensive for a moment, and had just opened her mouth to answer as McGonagall announced "Potter, Harry," and the Hall went deadly quiet for the second time that night.

A minute later, a Muggleborn and a Halfblood were staring each-other down at the end of the Slytherin table, not once blinking, until finally Daphne Greengrass was disconcerted enough to speak, taking care to not act as though she'd noticed anything odd.

"So... when's the coup?"

**v.**

You're worried.

Really, just look at the boy! He's not shown any magical ability yet, and he's practically Hogwarts age! What would his parents think of a Squib son? you ask yourself. They were - are - brilliant Aurors. More powerful than your average wizard or witch, gifted in Defence, and all that, and here was a boy, their _son_, who might be a Squib. Just _think_ of what it would do to the family name!

Now, the name might not be so prestigious as some others - the Potters, for instance, were one of the Ancient and Noble Houses, one of the few Light wizarding bloodlines which had that honour - but they're still well-off, and can trace the bloodline a good many centuries back. They're also small enough that a Squib can't just disappear; people notice that sort of thing. And besides, he's the heir, and his parents are hardly in a condition to procreate.

There _must_ be something you can do. The child just _can't_ be a Squib.

Well, accidental magic has a tendency to show itself in life-threatening situations, you know. And just because _you_ know that the child won't be in any danger - you're not _daft_, for Merlin's sake - his dormant magic hardly can, right?

**iii.**

She screamed.

And then there was one.


	2. part the second

_The _Lacrimosa_ is Mozart's, and the numbers are important, pay attention to the numbers._

* * *

**_Whatever Gods May Be_**

_[part the second - and all disastrous things]_

by Incendiarist

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_Pale, without name or number,  
__ In fruitless fields of corn,  
__They bow themselves and slumber  
__ All night till light is born ;  
__And like a soul belated,  
__In hell and heaven unmated,  
__By cloud and mist abated  
__ Comes out of darkness morn._

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**iiv.**

"Where _is_ he?"

"Probably being dragged around Diagon Alley; today's the thirty-first, remember."

**i.**

Screams, delirious chants of whatever words the speaker seemed to think would make them innocent, and half-choked sobs seemed to follow a person through the prison, clinging, almost as though the sounds could discern between sane humans and the soulless beings that were so feared by the wizarding populace. (Or perhaps the Dementors drank in the _sounds_ as well as the souls.) It was a bit odd, and more than a bit creepy, and it was for this reason that when the Aurors made their weekly inspections, it was whilst accompanied by a pair of the black-robed creatures.

Kingsley Shacklebolt walked through the altogether depressing, claustrophobic corridors of Azkaban, trying to ignore the pleas for help of those whom he passed the cells of. He was starting to realise why everyone so despised Azkaban Duty, beyond it meaning extended time spent in the company of Dementors. It was really horrible to try and pretend like all of these people didn't exist, to hold back the desire to free them all because _dammit, these were human beings _too_, for Merlin's sake_. But he controlled himself - just barely - and continued the walk to the wing of the prison which contained some of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's most trusted Death Eaters. Those were the dangerous ones, the ones the Ministry was really worried about. If Sirius Black had already escaped… Shacklebolt shuddered. Best not to think about that.

When he finally reached the wing, he was met with all of the same sounds, not that he had expected anything different. There were the same moans, the same hoarse screams, the same banging against the cell doors. And, at the very end of the wing, so quietly as to be almost entirely drowned out by the others even with Shacklebolt within such a close proximity, there was a decidedly - _different_ - sound. At first, the Auror had thought himself to be imagining things, but when he peered through the bars, he found his hearing to be perfectly fine.

Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black, was _singing_. He strained to make out the words.

"_Qua resurget ex favilla..._"

_Odd choice of song_, a very distant part of his mind pointed out, trying its damned hardest to be heard over the much louder screams of 'why isn't she being affected by the Dementors?'

"_Judicandus homo reus,_" she sung, and looked up at the Auror from her position on the floor in the corner of the tiny room. There was no emotion in her eyes, and Shacklebolt almost took a step back. Generally speaking, prisoners _don't look like that_. Even the insane ones.

She smiled.

**v.**

Neville Longbottom did not care for Professor Lockheart. To be honest, he thought the man was rather pathetic. (Though, their little group picked up _Obliviate_ after only a few minutes in his presence, which was nice.) Most people thought Professor Lockheart pathetic, actually. Save starstruck females, of which, sadly, there were many.

Why did he go to the duelling club, then? Simple: he wanted to see what would go wrong. He was a great fan of things that went wrong; one of the many reasons why he always screwed up his Potions, to Snape's eternal enmity. The other reason was, of course, his cover, but Neville always tried to have an ulterior motive. Something about how it made him feel like a rebel, because he wasn't doing what he was just because he was told to. _Stupid deities_.

In any case, the duelling club wasn't as chaotic as he'd hoped, and when Potter and Granger suddenly decided that now would be a good time to hold a conversation in Parseltongue, well, the response was a tad underwhelming. There were some mutterings of 'Should've known. A Potter and a Muggleborn in Slytherin. _Of course_ they must be Parselmouths. It's the only way the Hat would be so crazy,' and 'You've got to be joking,' but otherwise, there wasn't much else. Certainly not any screaming or rumours of the two being the next Dark Lord and Lady. Well, correcting that; any _new_ rumours of the two being the next Dark Lord and Lady.

**ii.**

Automatons.

That's all they were anymore. To the casual observer, perhaps, they would appear normal. That was what they had _wanted_, too, and the irony was not lost on It.

They acted as they had always done when they were still alive, to a degree, and that was exactly what It needed.

It and the boy, Dudley, were four now. The boy didn't know anything was wrong with his parents yet, and probably never would. That was an upside to It having eaten them when It did - had It waited any longer, the boy would have had a memory of how they acted before. Of course, considering his IQ, it was possible that he might not have noticed, anyway.

But better safe than sorry.

It sat in the cupboard under the stairs, in the dark. It was nice in there. And there were a lot of spiders that no-one would miss; enough to satiate a growing fae-creature. Barely, anyway. Humans would be better, or dogs, even. But no-one had dogs except Aunt Marge, and she was so obsessed with them, she would notice any changes in their countenance. She didn't seem to note any in her brother, oddly enough, though. And It was very glad of that. It would hate to have to try up any loose ends. Most of them were like a thread on the end of a jumper, and when you pulled it the whole thing would start to unravel. Unravelling was, without a doubt,_ very bad_.

For example, It couldn't do what They would normally do, which was kill the meal after having it, thanks to the blood wards that Professor Dumbledore had put up because he believed some rubbish about Lily Potter's sacrifice saving It from the killing curse. (Unfortunately, being fifteen months old at the time, it was more than a bit out of character to tell the man otherwise. Nevermind that It _could_. It would probably have blown the Thing's cover.)

That meant that they had to have a heart-beat. So the jumper began to unravel.

It was only through luck that the jumper still existed, to be honest. The Dursleys hadn't associated with the neighbours, or Marge, or really anyone besides themselves, so they weren't missed.

The Thing couldn't siphon magic off of the wards, which was troubling, but then there was Mrs. Figg; a Squib, but she still had residual magic, even if she couldn't use it. It was enough for the odd case of "accidental" magic, if just barely.

Dudley was obnoxious, but It couldn't have him, because somewhere, one of the Ancients must have liked annoying It, and Dudley actually managed to have _friends_. Friends who would, sadly, have noticed a problem. So It'd have to kill Dudley if It wanted him, and the elder Dursleys wouldn't likely grieve, and people would notice that they were acting strangely, so It'd have to kill _them_, and then the wards would fall, and good-bye jumper.

It shook it's head in irritation, and disappeared. It had a meeting to get to.

**iv.**

If they were Gryffindors, they would be dead, they knew. They would have no doubt tried to discover what was wrong with the two - for surely there was _something_ - and they would have gotten themselves killed for it, just as Daphne Greengrass had. She had found something out, the Slytherins were sure of it; they had seen the panicked look she wore when she read the response she had gotten from some mysterious letter she had sent out the night before.

If they'd been Ravenclaws, they might have watched from afar - _afar_ being the library, after curfew, and in the Restricted Section - but ultimately, they would have done the same as their Gryffindor selves, and they would still have ended up dead.

If they'd been Hufflepuffs, they might have gone to a teacher, and explained their concerns, and the teacher would tell them that nothing was wrong and _of course _Potter and Granger were human, what _else_ could they be? And they would have believed it, and gone on their merry way like nothing was wrong, though perhaps more cautious.

Of course, it was pointless to imagine themselves as Gryffindors or Hufflepuffs, because Granger and Potter would never have been Sorted into either House. Now, Ravenclaw, they would have done well in, if their on-going competition for 'who can shock a professor with the most post-NEWT-level knowledge' was any indication. But, in any case, they were in Slytherin, and as such, the Slytherins were themselves, and would not be getting themselves killed. They knew a warning when they saw one, and Greengrass with her head bashed in by the club of a mountain troll was definitely such.

**i.**

The next day, the _Daily Prophet_ spoke of a freak accident in which an Auror had been kissed by a rogue Dementor. No lines were connected.

**iii.**

"Meeting at the new Unspeakable's house."

"He's the one in the Hall of Prophecy, right? What's his name, again?"

"Iain Henlin, and yes. He's found something that might be… bothersome."

"Ah."

**vi.**

Dobby was _not_ _happy_. Harry Potter and his friend Hermione Granger had managed to get through the barrier, even though he'd blocked it. It didn't make any _sense;_ how could two humans get past house-elf magic?

**vii.**

McGonagall hid a smirk; Harry and Hermione had managed to be at the scene of the crime every time there was a petrification, they were both known as Parselmouths by the school (incidentally, that soul fragment was really rather helpful), and had maintained a blatantly faux-innocent front for Snape, who now stood next to her in the Headmaster's office, all but demanding he allow him to administer Veritaserum ("They're Occlumens, Albus! Both of them!"). She'd been dragged along to the meeting for Merlin-knew-what reason, and had been vaguely annoyed at first, but seeing how wound up the two had managed to get him, all without physical torture… That was impressive. She'd worked with the man for sixteen years, and she'd not been _near_ that successful. She reminded herself to congratulate them later.

**iiv.**

"Hello, Harry, Hermione. How is Slytherin House?"

"Lonely, especially now that Daphne's gone. How about Ravenclaw?"

"Also lonely. No-one believes me about the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. They say they're just silly myths."

"How can someone _not_ believe in Crumple-Horned Snorkacks? It's not as though they're invisible, or anything."

"I know! Is it a human thing, do you think?"

**i.**

"Uncle Regulus?" asked the eleven-year-old. She'd be leaving for Hogwarts the next month.

"Yes, Trixie?" he replied, smiling down at the dark-haired girl.

"I'm hungry," she said simply. Her brown eyes looked up at him, the epitome of innocence.

"Then let's get you some food, shall we?" He took her hand, leading her into the dining room, before calling a house-elf.

"Mister Regulus Black sir, what is you needing?" it asked, but Bellatrix cut off his answer, giggling.

"Not _that_ kind of food, Uncle Regulus."

He tilted his head. "What kind of food then?"

"The good kind," she answered, a smile in her eyes.

**vii.**

Minerva McGonagall was, they said, a perfect student.

She kept to herself, never got into trouble, had good grades. Professor Dumbledore was considering taking her on as an apprentice, even. No-one ever suspected - or had reason to suspect, for that matter - that she was any Darker than your average Hufflepuff, which had a ratio of Light to Dark of 10/.0037, according to one Muggleborn student who'd rather liked Maths. Of course, very few purebloods knew what a ratio even _was_, herself included, but it was still a very nice number.

Gryffindor, her own House, was not much higher, and she was the perfect example of a Gryffindor, besides.

Dumbledore trusted her without much difficulty, if any, and she was easily recruited into the fight against her old school-mate, Tom Riddle, when he returned as Lord Voldemort.

She became Trasfiguration Professor in Albus' stead, and Deputy Headmistress, his most trusted confidant. In fact, her position mimicked that of Bellatrix Lestrange. Quite exactly, one might be surprised to note. Amazing that they weren't polar opposites, really.

**vi.**

"Hi," the girl said, not looking up from her book.

"What are you reading?" the boy asked. He was about her age, maybe a little older, dirty blonde hair and light skin at odds against her ethnic appearance.

"_Romeo and Juliet_," she answered, still not looking up. "Have you read it?" Her free hand fiddled with the edge of her too-short skirt. It was, like the rest of her school uniform, all but threadbare, and he was sure that if she weren't wearing a vest, he would be able to see through to her flat chest. He could see her arms through the translucent-but-meant-to-be-opaque sleeves, in any case. It was the shirt's fault, for being white.

"Nah, but I know the story, sorta."

She smiled a little, her teeth gleaming against her dark skin, and she raised her eyes, saying, "Doesn't everyone?"

He grinned too. "Probably. So, um… you like that kind of stuff?"

She blushed, and twisted one of her tiny braids on her finger. "Well, I _am_ a girl, aren't I?"

He decided he liked this girl, though he couldn't say why. He'd heard from some of the elder ones that one could, rather than simply _eat_ a human's soul, _replace_ it. He thought he had an idea of how to do it; hypothetically, knowledge of that sort was inherent. "Have you ever kissed anyone before?"

She would appear to have had an inordinate interest in the ground as she replied, "No."

"Do you…?" He let the question hang, the unspoken would perfectly clear.

"Yeah, I do." She smiled, and he leaned towards her, and she leaned in over her right arm, still holding the book, the rest of the way to meet his lips. It dissolved from the chaste kiss that one would expect from eight-year-olds as his tongue touched against her lips, and she gave him access.

What happened then could only perhaps be described as a sharing of breath, as he inhaled and then so did the girl, and then without either of them entirely sure what happened, they had broken apart.

"Wow," she whispered distantly. "Wow." She met his gaze, saying, "Hello, Justin."

"Hello, Mandy."


End file.
